


The Aloha Oe Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a move afoot for Hawai'i to secede from the United States and UNCLE isn't sure if THRUSH is 'helping out' with the cause or if there's something else more sinister going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aloha Oe Affair

            Donway Jones pulled his car off onto the shoulder of the road and looked over at the crossed sticks.  The balls of red material on the tips proclaimed that this area was 'kapu' to everyone except the king.  Obviously someone with a sense of humor had been busy.  There hadn't been any royal family here since Queen Liliuokalani and even she hadn't been real sovereignty, more of a figurehead whose greatest claim to fame was having written "Aloha Oe".

 

            Donway snorted and climbed out, checking to be sure his gun was ready, just in case.  While he knew there were no more 'kapu' areas, there were some touchy drug dealers even on the Big Island of Hawaii and it paid to be cautious when wandering into strange areas.

 

            He moved carefully through the undergrowth, pushing aside huge sprays of white ginger and bamboo orchids.  He didn't stop to admire their beauty or fragrance for the footing was too treacherous.  Even outside the Volcano National Park, lava tubes, and fissures were frequent.  You couldn't just plop your foot down anywhere or you might find yourself a few feet lower.  Worse, you might find yourself in trapped in an old lava tube, lost to the world.

 

            Abruptly, he was flying up through the air, an iron grip and the ensuing pain on one ankle where a rope had snared it. Apparently, whoever proclaimed this area 'kapu' obviously meant it.      He dangled from the ohia tree for a moment, trying to calm himself and not lose his gun.  It wasn't the most opportune time for his communicator to start beeping, but that didn't stop it.

 

             Jones bit his lip and reached for the silver pen‑like instrument which clung precariously to his shirt pocket.

 

            "Open Channel A.  Jones here."

 

            "Yes, Mr. Jones," came a gravelly voice and the agent grimaced.  It would have to be him.  "Any trouble?"

 

            "Ah, not really, Mr. Waverly.  I've been hanging around some of the local spots and so far haven't come up with anything conclusive.  They are friendly enough when you're a tourist, but they don't want much to do with a haole if they think you’re moving in on their territory."

 

            "Haole?"

 

            "Non Hawaiian, sir.  Whatever is happening here, they don't want to discuss it with an off‑islander."

 

            "Nor a kapu breaker," answered a third voice.  Before Jones could even react, a cord slipped around his neck and his eyes bulged from the sudden pressure applied.  Oblivious to the worried voice from his fallen communicator, his fingers tugged at the wire as it grew tighter and tighter until he simply had no energy or life left to fight with.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE  "DO YOU SMELL A WET DUCK?"

 

            Napoleon Solo slapped his arms around him and hunched his shoulders back into his heavy overcoat.  It seemed that the New York winters grew colder each year.

 

            Outside, Illya Kuryakin scraped the last bit of ice from the rear window and climbed into the car, bringing the snow storm in with him

 

            "Close the door, Illya.  It's just getting warm in here."

 

            "You should be out there."  The Russian flapped his arms around him.  “Is it my imagination that this winter seems colder than the last?

 

            “It’s not colder, you’re older.”

 

            “That’s a comforting thought,” Illya said, unzipping his jacket to let some of the heat in.

 

            "I thought you were used to cold weather."  Solo sat up straighter and edged the car forward gently, not so worried about his own driving as that of the others around him.  For some reason, snow brought out all the crazy drivers.   "All those years growing up in Russia surely must have conditioned you for this."

 

            "Napoleon, Russia is three times the size of the U.S. This may shock you, but we aren't always encased in winter. We do actually have some temperate weather zones."

 

            "But only in the summer."

 

            The pen communicator in Illya's pocket chirped for attention, but was barely audible through the heavy down jacket he wore.  Sighing, he dug it out and pulled off a glove to extend the antenna.

 

            "Open Channel D.  Kuryakin here."

 

            "Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly's voice began without preamble, "What is your ETA?"

 

            "With the weather and Napoleon’s driving I'd say another half hour, despite of the fact that we are just past Central Park.  Anything faster and Napoleon might wrap us around a street lamp."

 

            "No need to endanger yourselves.  Check in with me as soon as you arrived."

 

            "Yes, Sir.  Out."   Illya tucked away the instrument into a pocket and burrowed back into the protective cocoon of his coat.  Even down wasn't effective against the cold once it got damp.

 

            "Do you smell a wet duck?" Solo ventured, coming smoothly out of a skid.  He sniffed exaggeratedly in the direction of his partner.  "I would have thought they'd all have flown south by now."  Smiling, he returned his full attention to his driving.

 

 

 

 

            Illya Kuryakin stared down at the oval table in disbelief.

 

             "Hawaii, Sir?  Now?"

 

            "You have an objection, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Waverly looked up from fumbling with his briar pipe.  "If you have other pressing engagements, I could certainly assign other agents. I’m sure there would be many others eager to take this assignment on."  He occasionally enjoyed toying with his agents and it was helpful to remind them just who was in charge of this branch of UNCLE.

 

             "Oh no, sir," came the hasty answer from Solo.  "I just wanted to know who I should thank in my prayers tonight."

 

            "THRUSH, Mr. Solo, and I wouldn't go thanking them yet.  Are either of you familiar with an agent,” Waverly paused as he checked a file.  “By the name of Donway Jones?"

 

             "He's Section 2 out of Los Angeles.  He's got quite a promising career."  He coughed slightly and drew himself up.  "I've even heard that he's being called the Napoleon Solo of the West Coast."  He sent a cocky smile at his partner and the Russian merely shook his head.

 

            “Hubris” he mouthed back to his partner.

 

            "Had, Mr. Solo.  He's dead.  In fact, while in contact with this office."

 

             The grin disappeared, replaced by a worried expression, one he shared with his partner.  Illya shifted and brushed his hair back from his eyes.  "What happened, sir?"

 

     Waverly rose and pulled down a wall map.  "The Hawaiian Islands, gentlemen, or the Sandwich Islands, if you will. Eight in all, but currently only six are accessible to tourists. Number seven is a bombing site for the Air Force and the other is a private island, bought when such a thing was possible.  They were officially discovered by Captain James Cook in 1778."

 

            "Who was killed a year later by the very people who thought him a god," Illya interrupted, leaning forward.  “He apparently had the bad luck to appear human to them and had his head crushed as a reward for his mistake.”

 

            "Exactly, Mr. Kuryakin.  As with many culture, early Hawaiians are noted for their bloody, war‑like beginnings.  This was all taken care of by King Kamehameha who united the islands in 1782 by conquering all the islands.  He is considered the father of Hawaii by many people for he was the first and only one to bring lasting peace.  Because of that, his name and actions are today held in high regard, although many at the time felt he sold out to the visiting foreigners that followed."

 

            "It's the only state to have had a ruling monarchy then.  How do these natives feel about foreigners today? Still think their king sold them out?"  Solo attempted to lighten things up.

 

            "Apparently so, Mr. Solo and in fact, it would appear as though there's another war brewing," Waverly continued, appearing unimpressed with Solo's contribution.  "We have been receiving growing reports of violence against off‑islanders and non‑Hawaiians. It's almost as if they are trying to reclaim the land for themselves.  So far, most of the attacks have been limited to the Big Island of Hawaii ‑ the largest and most sparsely inhabited."

 

            Do we know who ‘they’ are, sir?"  Illya had picked up the report folder and was half scanning the contents, half listening to his boss.  He squinted slightly to avoid having the pulled his glasses out.

 

            "A band of Hawaiians led by a man claiming to be Kamehameha the tenth. We suspect that he has THRUSH ties, but haven't been able to prove it yet. This isn't the first time such a thing has been tried, but we believe that victory can be achieved if supported and funded by THRUSH."

 

            "But we have to be certain of their interference before we can step in ourselves," Solo deduced his chief line of reasoning.  "Otherwise, we could be sticking our noses where we shouldn't."

 

            "That is exactly my point, Mr. Solo.  Up to now, we've only had suppositions.  That's why we sent Mr. Jones.  That's why we're sending the pair of you.  Prove it to be THRUSH or we'll be forced to turn it over to other government agencies."

 

            The pair both caught the tone of dismissal and rose. Waverly's throat clearing halted them in their tracks and both turned to look back at him.

 

            "And try not to have too much fun, gentlemen,"

 

 

CHAPTER TWO  "I THOUGHT THAT WAS YOUR JOB."

 

 

            Napoleon Solo leaned over the lap of his partner and looked out the small airplane window.

 

            "Sure feels ridiculous carrying this heavy overcoat," he mumbled to no one in particular.  Illya Kuryakin, engrossed in a book of Polynesian culture, couldn't always be counted on for an answer.  This time, Solo wasn't disappointed.

 

            "They're used to it, Napoleon.  Hundreds of winter‑weary visitors come here now, just to see blue and green instead of white.  Maybe we'll be lucky and it will be spring before we resolve this mess."

 

            "Somehow, I don't think Mr. Waverly will let us drag it out any longer than necessary."

 

            The intercom interrupted him with, "May I have your attention please?  The captain has just turned on the 'no smoking' sign.  We are on our final approach to the Hilo Airport.  Please make sure your seats are in their full upright position and that your trays are locked into place. It has been a pleasure to serve you and we hope you will be flying Aloha Airlines again soon.  Mahalo."

 

            "Mahalo?"  Solo looked over at Illya.

 

            "'That’s Hawaiian for thank you.  It seems the popular phrase to use here." Illya handed him the book he'd been studying for the most part of the trip.  "I suggest you take a look through this. It could save your life."

 

            "Silly me - I always thought that was your job."  Solo thumbed through the pages disinterestedly.

 

            "It is...when I'm around, but I am not always convenient.   However, even being an island, Hawaii is a big place.  I won't be able to keep tabs on you all the time."

 

 

 

 

            Napoleon kept alert on the short drive from the Hilo Airport to their hotel on Banyan Drive, so named for all the huge trees that lined it.  Each one had been planted by a dignitary, according to Illya’s guidebook.  Nothing seemed particularly out of place.  Happy tourists dressed in loud, flowered shirts and baggy shorts wandered by, faces towards the sun, their backs firmly turned on winter, if just for a short time. Napoleon steered the rental car easily down the road, keeping one eye out for unwary tourists who might stray in his path.

 

            Yet there seemed to be a sincere lack of bikini‑clad sun bathers and Napoleon was justly disappointed and said as much to his partner.

 

            "That's because this is Hilo, Napoleon.  It's located the rainy side.  All the sun worshippers are on the Kona coast." 

 

            "When do we leave for there?"

 

            "As soon as we check Hilo out...thoroughly.  By the way, did you know Hilo means 'seasick'?"

 

            "I can see why.  There's certainly enough of it out there to make one that way."  Solo pulled into the parking lot of a low brown building.  The sign proclaimed this to be the exclusive and authentically Hawaiian 'Uncle Billy's Hotel'.  "Uncle Billy's?  Is this Mr. Waverly's idea of a joke?"

 

            "I'd rather think of it as fate as opposed to the Old Man having a sense of humor."  Illya grinned at his partner as Solo squeezed the sedan into a free space. "Besides, you may be in luck."  The blond pointed to a poster that read, 'Free Hula Show Nightly'.  "Think you'd get tired of that?"

 

            "I've always been fond of swaying grasses.  Gentle, flowing..."  He finished the sentence with the appropriate hand motions.

 

            "Of course, it would be in poor taste for me to mention that, historically, only men were allowed to hula."  At Solo's crestfallen look, he smiled and patted a shoulder.  "That was in the old days, Napoleon, before Christianity nearly put an end to it entirely.  It wasn’t until King Kalakaua brought it back, along with many of the old ways.  Now they have a festival every spring to celebrate his contribution to the Hawaiian people."

 

            “You got all that out of that little book?”

 

            “It’s called research, Napoleon.  You should try it.”

 

            "I wonder why I didn't leave you in New York."  Solo climbed out and immediately broke into a sweat.  "It must be all the moisture that makes it smell so musty.  What's the rainfall here?"

 

            "About 140 inches annually or in layman's terms..." Illya went around to the truck to get their suitcases and looked up as it began to sprinkle.  "...always."

 

 

            Napoleon Solo looked from the balcony to the fishpond below.  Rain pelted the surface, causing the fish to ripple. Hilo hadn't waited long to show its true colors.  In fact, it had barely waited until they'd gotten into the hotel before the rain started pouring down with a passion. Now he understood why all the tourists were out earlier. Probably one of the few times the sun had shone lately.  His partner's voice drew him back into their room.

 

            "Napoleon, where and when do we meet our...friend?" 

 

            "It's okay, Illya.  There are no bugs that I can find, at least of the mechanical variety."  He lifted the can of insecticide that came with the room.  "If THRUSH is running this, perhaps they're not expecting us yet.  According to what Mr. Waverly told me, we are supposed to meet him at the bridge in the Queen Lilioukalani Park tomorrow morning.  In which case, some dinner is in order.  Feel like some swinging grassland?"  Solo pulled away from his reverie at the window.

 

            "I prefer something more substantial."  Illya came out, wearing a white polo shirt and lightweight slacks instead of his usual suit or severe black turtleneck.  "Let's go bird watching," he suggested, tossing Solo a windbreaker.

 

            "In this downpour?"  Solo gestured to the balcony door.

 

            "In this."

 

 

            'This' hadn't stopped when Solo woke the next morning. At least, he guessed it to be in the a.m.  It was still pretty dark out.

 

            He sat up and reached for his watch.  The luminescent dial read a mere 4 a.m.  Try as he might, he couldn't tell whether Kuryakin was awake or not.  Finally he ventured, softly, "Illya, are you asleep?"

 

            "Not for about an hour or so.”  His partner’s voice answered him from the bathroom and Napoleon could make out a thin strip of light from behind the door.

 

            Solo rose and pulled on his robe.  "You seem to be spending a lot of time in there.  Are you okay?"

 

            “I’m fine, come in.”

 

            Solo blinked in the light as he slid the pocket door aside.  As soon as he made peace with his optic nerves, he grinned at the sight before him.  On the floor was spread various topographical maps of the island.  Off to one side was a notepad, pens, a thermos and a cup of coffee.  In the middle of it all sat his partner.

 

             "I didn't want the light to bother you." Illya offered the cup up to Solo.

 

            He sipped and made a face.  "Sort of strong, isn't it?"

 

            "It's Kona coffee, Blue Mountain, I think they called it," Illya explained as he gathered up the maps and headed back for the main body of their room. "I understand that you can get quite addicted to it."

 

            "Who told you that?"  Solo tried another drink as he turned on the room's lights for his partner.

 

            "A waitress down at the pancake house where I bought it.  Went for a run this morning and stumbled across it."

 

            "Find out anything else of interest?"  Solo indicated the maps.

 

            "Not really, except what we already know.  The island has large unpopulated areas, with most of the population concentrated either here or in Kona.  Of the Island's 75,000 people, 40,000 live here in Hilo."

 

            "That's barely the population of Brooklyn."

 

            "Now we know why they chose this as a starting place. Look at this."  Illya pointed to a spot on the map.  "Here in the Waipio Valley, there aren't even any roads.  In fact, you can't even drive all around the coastline.  Still, that doesn't take away from the fact that Hawaiians are fiercely proud of their heritage."

 

            "Ever since they nearly lost it to outside religions, I can see why." Napoleon drained the cup and handed it back to the Russian.

 

            "Personally, I think Kaahumanu was more responsible than the Calvinists."  To Solo's questioning look, he simply shook his head.  "The book, Napoleon, you should really read the book."

 

            Solo shrugged his comment off and reached for his clothes.  "Still, it's understandable why they dislike off‑ islanders so much."

 

            "When do we meet with our agent?"

 

            "Eight o'clock."  Solo strapped on his watch.  "Which leaves us a few hours."

 

             "Good, here's a map.”  Illya passed over a topographical map of the region.  “Start studying.  I don't want to have to fish you out of a lava tube."

 

           

 

            It was still raining after they finished breakfast and walked the short distance from their hotel to the Queen Liliuokalani Gardens ‑ an area set aside by the people of Hilo to honor their last reigning monarch and as a tribute to the people who perished in the last great tsunami. 

 

     "Where is this bridge?" Solo asked as they ducked beneath the protection offered by a banyan tree.  He peered over at the mist‑enshrouded park.

 

            "Well, there's just a couple that are occupied, so I'd go for one of those.  The first one has the biggest, meanest‑looking Samoan I've ever seen."

 

            "The other?"

 

             "A little old man fishing.  Which one do you prefer?"

 

             "Is one covered?"  Solo sheltered his eyes from the dripping rain.  "Oh, the Samoan’s.  Wonder if he'd mind moving."

 

             "He looks like the minding type."

 

            "Let's go take our chances."

 

            Casually, but with as much haste as possible, they moved down one of the various paths, past the Japanese architecture, to the covered bridge.  Even this pace didn't prevent each man from getting soaked through.

 

            They sat down on one of the benches and smiled at the scowling man, who stared briefly before returning to his fishing lines.

 

            "I think I now understand why the natives here wear as little as possible."  Napoleon wiped his face off with a handkerchief and then returned it to a suit pocket.

 

            "You do stick out like a sore thumb, Mr. Solo," murmured the Samoan.  "But, far be it for me to tell a superior how to dress.  Leimana Kelekio, at your service.  You can call me Lei."  The man grinned, obviously pleased with himself.

 

            "You don't sound Hawaiian," Illya said, extending a hand.

 

            "Oxford, '62’.  They said, 'Join U.N.C.L.E. and see the world'.  So, where do they ship me?  Right back to where I started from.  I don't care for what I've seen so far."

 

            Napoleon adjusted his jacket, sweltering in the humidity.  Because of his gun holster, he couldn’t take it off.  "What do you have for us?"

 

            "Oh, you don't want me, you want Uncle Charlie."  Lei stood and let out an ear‑breaking whistle.  The short man glanced over at him and nodded in reply.

 

            "Uncle Billie, Uncle Charlie?  There seem to be a lot of uncles around here."

 

            "It's a sign of respect to call an elder uncle or auntie.  He's my partner."

 

            The man hurried over to them, beaming, his eyes nearly crinkled shut.

 

            "I thought it might be you two.  Don't get anyone out except locals and lolos out on a morning like this."  He stuck out a pudgy hand, then looked at it and wiped it off on his pants before holding it out again.  "Charlie Pukul."

 

            "I'm Napoleon Solo and this is my partner Illya Kuryakin.  Can you shed any light on what's been happening around here?"

 

            Lei went back to his lines and Charlie came over and sat beside them, still grinning.

 

            "First, I have reservations for you both at the Volcano House for tonight.  Donway was killed while en route there. We couldn't find anything here.  I have a feeling that it might be the focal point for 'Hawai'i no Ho'auhuli'."

 

            "Hawaii no what?"

 

            "Ho’auhuli stands for Hawaiians for Revolution. That's what this band of hupos is calling themselves.  Tourism is our number one industry here.  You don't have to like it to know we would be crippled without it. The idea that we are self‑sufficient is ridiculous, but they are young, idealistic and feeling their ancient blood."

 

            Lei jerked his line out and began pulling off numerous tiny fish.

 

            "Dinner," Solo asked, nodding to the fish.

 

            "Bait for dinner.  We sell these to the fishermen. Also gives us a chance to catch up on the latest gossip.  I don't mean to sound argumentative, Uncle, but I think you're going to find the action in Kona or the surrounding area. That's where all the tourists are heading, not for tired old Hilo."

 

            "I hear there's good fishing here though."  Kuryakin turned to stare out towards Coconut Island.

 

            "Not here.  Hilo Bay is badly polluted.  You have to go out beyond the breakers or to Kona for any decent fish.  Of course, they are blaming that on the tourist too.  Hell, they're blaming dandelions on haoles.  This is not a good time to be white on this island."

 

            Napoleon looked at the back of his hand and smiled. "Wonderful, what color would you suggest?"

 

            Charlie laughed and slapped him on the back.  The power of the blow took Solo by surprise.  In spite of the man's diminutive size, he was obviously quite capable of taking care of himself.

 

            "Don't you worry about that, Mr. Solo.  Between Lei and me, we'll keep you alive and whole."

 

            "So, what happened to Jones," Illya asked, still staring out at the bay.

 

            The two Hawaiians exchanged embarrassed looks.  "He wouldn't listen to us," Charlie eventually said.  "He didn't understand how the people operate here.  If he had listened, he'd be with us now."

 

     "And we'd still be scraping ice off our windshield," Illya muttered.  "Will we see you again?"

 

             "Oh I imagine so.  I will be in the restaurant at Volcano House tonight and Lei is always around.  All you gotta do is whistle and you know how to whistle.  And, be sure to give your regards to Madame Pele."

 

             "Who?"  Napoleon was getting confused.

 

            "Goddess of the volcano.  She lives in the Halemaumau Crater.  She likes ohelo berries or cheap gin," Illya said.

 

            “I know, the book.”

 

            "Don't we all?"  Lei added and his partner laughed.

 

            "We'll see you there tonight and, please don't go off on your own without saying something to one of us."

 

            "We will consider that words to the wise.  Shall we, Mr. K?"

 

 

 

            They were heading out of the city when a gong in Napoleon's stomach went off, this in spite the fact that they'd eaten just a few hours earlier.  With all the globetrotting he'd done, one would think his stomach would lose interest in daily proceedings, but this was not always the case.

 

            "Wonder where all these side roads go," Illya glanced around as he drove.  "I think I know why they decided on the Big Island for staging their revolution.  Most of these aren't even on the map."

 

            "Agreed.  This place is still half wild.  Not too many...haoles either.”  That was when he saw the sign and smiled.  "Illya, have you ever had macadamia nuts?"

 

             "Not that I know of.  Why?"

 

            "Well, I just think we should explore that."  He pointed to a banner that pointed the way to 'Mauna Loa Macadamia Nut Factory ‑ Visitors Welcome'.

 

 

    

 

Solo was happily munching his way through a second can of nuts as they got back on the main road.

 

            "Do you know how many calories there are in just one of those?"

 

            "No and I don't want to know, Illya, and I don't know what you're so worried about.  You could stand to put on a few pounds."

 

            "Somehow I always seem to figure into your exercise program.  Besides, I'm the one who has to carry you when you get knocked unconscious."

 

            "Just drive, Illya."

 

            They rode in a relaxed, but alert silence, passing small clusters of houses and huge fragrant groves of white and red ginger, anthuriums, and birds of paradise. Gradually, the tropical growth gave way to ohia trees and wild bamboo orchids.

 

            Suddenly, the car slowed and Solo sat up.  "What's wrong?"

 

            "Someone has 'kapu' sticks up.  I didn't know they still had taboos here."

 

            "Probably some kids playing..."

 

            "That’s the aforementioned attitude that could get you killed," Illya interrupted.

 

            "...Or someone is staking off his property," Solo finished with a scowl.  "Do you want to stop?"

 

            "Not right now.  If we need to, we can come back."

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE  "LET ME GUESS, HAWAIIAN NO WHATEVER."

 

 

            Napoleon Solo sat in front of the fireplace that decorated one wall of the Volcano House's lobby, his feet stretched out towards the roaring fire.  According to a nearby sign, it hadn't gone out in something like 60 years. Solo had initially laughed at the idea of a fireplace at all in a tropical paradise, but had changed his tune once the sun went down and the clouds moved in.  It was cold now, not enough for snow, but plenty chilly all the same. Fog had moved in and hidden much of the surrounding from them, forcing them inside for the night

 

            He sipped at his drink and listened to the conversations around him.  Even though Illya appeared deeply engrossed in his book, Solo suspected he was doing the same thing, listening and waiting.

 

             Dominating topics seemed to be what had happened today, would occur tomorrow and was waiting to be seen.  Nothing of real interest to Solo, but he kept a minimum of attention on his paper anyway.  Suddenly, he heard,

 

            "I just don't know why that man was so rude!  And that name he called us.  What was it, Rachel?  Cowlies?"

 

            "Haoles, dear."

 

            "I mean, just because we didn't bother with his silly sticks.  You'd think he owns the island!"

 

            Solo's ears, if possible, would have perked up and swiveled in their direction.  Outwardly, he was disinterested, but inside he was holding his breath.  The women didn't appear to notice and the older of the two looked up from her knitting.

 

            "I didn't think there were any parts of Kona that were off limits and not posted."

 

            "Well, his definitely was and right in the middle of a stupid field.  I want to go back to Honolulu.  At least all the beaches are public!"

 

            Solo fazed them out at this point.  He needed to get a message to their contacts, so he rose and slapped Kuryakin playfully on the shoulder.

 

            "Well, old man, I think I'm off to bed."

 

            The blond looked over at him.  "It's only 7:30, Napoleon."

 

            "Yes, but I've been up since four this morning.  I'm more than ready to call it a day. I would imagine you’d be dragging as well."

 

            "I'll follow you in a bit.  I want to finish this chapter."  Illya pushed his glasses back and returned to his reading.  With a reassuring squeeze of his partner's shoulder, Solo made his way to their room.

 

            Once safely inside, he pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel A.  Solo here," he said, toeing off his shoes.

 

            "Channel A is open.” The voice that answered was melodious and soft.  “Aloha, Napoleon, how are you?"

 

            He didn't recognize the voice, but that didn't stop the smile that followed.  "Aloha, yourself, Honolulu.  Listen, I need you to get some information to Uncle Charlie..."

 

            "Charlie Pukul?"

 

            "That's the one.  I need to meet with him or his partner concerning a possible lead."

 

            "Got it.  Anything else?"

 

            "No, not that I can think of, but I'll call you if something comes up.  Solo out."

 

            He tucked away the communicator and finished undressing, intending to wait for the Russian's return before climbing into the shower.  But Illya's few minutes turned into a half hour and Solo gave up.

 

            In fact, he'd finished his shower and had crawled into bed with Illya's Polynesian culture book before the blond finally showed up, his step less than steady and his face relaxed from its usual serious scowl.

 

            "Where have you been?"  Even to his own ears Solo sounded like a prying parent.

 

            "Ah, Dad, it isn't that late.  Besides, it isn't a school night."  Illya collapsed on his bed and yawned at his dark‑haired partner.

 

            "Sorry."

 

            "Concern duly noted and appreciated.  I wanted to see if I could get any more information out of our two traveling companions."

 

            "And?"

 

            "After being accused of being a flirt, they were able to give me an approximation of where those 'kapu' markers were."  He kicked off his shoes and stretched out.

 

            "That's great," Solo enthused, studying his yawning partner closely.  Anything else?"

 

            "Afterwards I engaged the bartender in a little innocent conversation."

 

            Solo nodded,   "I thought you were slightly...relaxed."

 

            "That Pele's Revenge has a mean side to it, especially after five of them. I had to switch to vodka just to keep my head on straight."   Illya smiled at the memory.  "Anyhow, kapu markers have been out of fashion since the early 1900's.  He thought they might have been placed by a special group of Hawaiians."

 

            "Let me guess, Hawaii no whatever."

 

            "That’s the one."

 

            "So, they're not necessarily keeping their presence a secret."

 

            "Apparently not, but of course, I couldn't get any more from him without arousing suspicions, so I packed it in."

 

            "I put in a call to Honolulu.  When we see Uncle Charlie or Lei tomorrow, we'll have to mention that. Hopefully, one of them can get through the barriers here. Unless, of course, you can transform yourself into a Hawaiian overnight," Solo laughed and rolled over onto his side.  Sleep would not be long in coming tonight.

 

 

 

            When he awoke the next morning, he was alone.  He knew it before opening his eyes, a sense built up after years of being an enforcement agent.

 

            Birds had started to chirp outside the window, even though the sun was still not up, but Solo didn't take that as anything but some misguided early birds.  He turned onto his back and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the room.

 

            Illya's bed was rumpled, so he'd eventually used it, though when, Solo didn't know.  He reached for his watch and his hand brushed a piece of paper instead.  Curiosity piqued, he turned on the light and read the message, scribbled in Illya's precise handwriting.

 

            'Napoleon, have gone native. I'll be in touch.  See you in Kona.'  Then, as an obvious afterthought was, 'Aloha.'

 

            Napoleon smiled and looked back out the window as the sun licked the top of Mauna Loa.  So much for them not going off without a word to their Hawaiian hosts.  Silently, he wished his partner luck and hoped that whatever god looked after fools, he’d be just a little more diligent with regards to a blond Russian.

 

            An hour later, a quick hike down the Kilauea‑iki trail and back found him sipping a cup of coffee and glancing through the pages of the Honolulu Observer.  It wasn't much of a paper when compared to the New York Times, but it had its points of interest.  Particularly when he found an article concerning the assault committed on a Gary Simpkins of Los Angeles.  The by‑line said Kailua, Kona's sister town.

 

            His plate was cleared from the table and a familiar voice interrupted his reading.

 

            "More coffee, sir?"

 

            Solo glanced up, startled to see Lei Kelekio flourishing a coffee pot as easily as he had the fishing line the previous morning.

 

            "Yes, thank you."  He returned to his paper, ears acutely waiting for a message.  However, none came and the big Samoan hurried away.

 

     Curious, Solo lifted his cup and grinned to himself. On the blotter, printed very carefully, was, 'Meet me at the Thurston lava tube at 9:30'.  Napoleon nodded, suspecting the agent was waiting for an acknowledgement of some sort and returned to his reading.

 

 

            Napoleon Solo paused before the mouth of the lava tube and peered uneasily inside.  He hadn't seen anything quite like this before and he was uncomfortable with the darkness. It was a perfect spot for an ambush, especially with Illya gone.

 

            "Do you know how a lava tube is formed?" asked a voice beside him.  Solo looked over at Lei Kelekio and nodded.

 

            "Illya explained it to me. The outer edges of the lava cool faster than the core. It, being liquid, flows out, leaving a tube behind.  I've heard some are as big as subway tunnels."

 

            "Or capable of hiding entire Army platoons.  That's very good, Mr. Solo."

 

            "Thank you.  I heard you wanted to see me."

 

             "The bartender here seems to know something about something.  Illya thought it might warrant a closer look."

 

             "I'll check into it.  See that article about Kailua?"

 

             "Uh huh."

 

            "Interesting."

 

            "Very.  Illya is checking into it."

 

            "That was a very bad idea. He should have had one of us go with him.  I hope he's careful."

 

            "That's one thing I have every confidence in."

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR  "WHAT SORT OF NAME IS THAT?"

 

 

            Illya Kuryakin scratched at his cheek and sighed.  The coloring he'd applied to his skin itched, especially when he sweated, which was pretty often.  His ripped and well worn dark tee shirt hung loosely off him, saturated with sweat.   At least, it and the black hair dye weren’t water-soluble or he'd have had streaks down his face by now.  One thing was certain, a hang‑over was a hang‑over, paradise or not.

 

            He leaned back into partial shade offered by an ohia tree and stared out at the restless Pacific, listening, waiting, while under the guise of dozing.  If he were lucky, he'd at least get a hint at what his next move should be.

 

            The fishing rod of the man beside him bent and the Hawaiian scrambled for it.  He hauled in the line, only to snort with disgust at the brightly‑colored fish.

 

            "Stupid uma."  He unhooked it and tossed it back to the sea before turning to Illya.  "You having any luck?"

 

            Illya glanced over and shrugged.  "Not really, but I wasn't expecting it either."

 

             "Good place for it.  Those stupid tourists have sucked this whole cove dry.  Hell, they even keep umas.  I haven't seen you before.  I'm Kana.  You from Kona?"

 

            "Hilo.  I'm Illya."

 

            "What sort of name is that?"

 

             "Russian."

 

            "You don't look Russian.  Then and again, I've never seen a blue‑eyed Hawaiian before."

 

            Kuryakin grimaced at him, "Makuahine sense of humor. She saw it in some book.  The eyes too.  All I got from my dad were his bills. "

 

             "Why don't you change it?"

 

            "Too much trouble and too much money.  I'd rather fish."  Illya reeled in his line and cast it again.

 

            "What else do you like to do?"

 

            "Depends."

 

            "On?"

 

            "The company"

 

            "You like to fight?"

 

            "Always, if I’m with a guy."  Illya's heart pounded as the man grinned at him.  Perhaps he'd gotten more than just his foot in the door.  “But then only if I can win.  I don’t like losing.”

 

            The man rose, hauling in his line.  "You look like you could."  He murmured something else, but in Hawaiian.  Illya translated it into either 'Freedom to the Islands' or ‘your mother walks like a horse.' He’d not had time to make a proper study of the language, but somehow, the former made more sense.  The man gestured to him, thumb and pinky extended. "Hang loose, man."

 

            Illya nodded and returned to his fishing, doing his best to not give in to nervous anticipation.  He watched Kana leave and waited several minutes before making any moves.   Eventually, he reeled in his line and stood, stretching.  How anyone could make a living at this was beyond him ‑ even doing it for fun was out of the question as far as he was concerned.

 

            Illya tailed Kana easily, the man either blissfully unaware of his presence or not caring.  He turned down a small alley and slipped into a tiny, out‑of‑the‑way bar.

 

            It was dark inside and cool, a situation Illya's hangover greeted joyously.  He moved to the bar, waiting for his eyes to adjust before searching for the Hawaiian.

 

            And soon he did, finding the man at a back table, alone, already nursing a bottle of beer.  He was soon joined by a second man and then a third.  Within fifteen minutes, six additional people came in and then more.  It continued until the back of the room was nearly filled to overflowing. All were Islanders, although Illya detected a few more fair skinned than even his usual coloring.  Still of Hawaiian blood, but mixed along the way.

 

            Illya sipped his beer and watched another group enter. This was getting out of hand.  It was funny...  He never finished the thought ‑ it was rudely interrupted by a thwack of a blackjack and Illya crumbled down onto the bar, blissfully unaware of the cheering behind him.

 

 

 

            Napoleon Solo eased his foot off the gas and paused for his bearings.  A quick search revealed a sign stating 'Police Station 1.5 miles' pointing him down a winding access road.

 

            He followed it to the end, parking his sedan in as much shade as possible.  He'd finally given up on his suit and had resorted to a light polo shirt.  He had reluctantly tucked his gun into the glove compartment before leaving the hotel, thus freeing him from his jacket.  .

 

            The man at the desk looked up, smiling at the dark‑ haired agent.  "Aloha, how may I help you?"

 

            "Could I see your chief please?"

 

            "I'll have to see if he's available, Mr.?"

 

            "Solo, Napoleon Solo from the U.N.C.L.E."  He held up his gold ID card.  That seemed to spur the policeman into action and he immediately rose to his feet.

 

            "One moment and I'll get him."

 

            In less than that, Solo was seated in an airy office, iced coffee in hand and studying the Hilo Chief of Police.

 

            "So, Mr. Solo, what can I help you with?"

 

            "Napoleon will do for starters."  Solo smiled warmly at the man.  "My partner and I are investigating the recent acts of violence against whites."

 

            "Haoles, Napoleon.  We call them haoles.  It's been a problem recently, I'll admit, but nothing to warrant the attention of an international organization like U.N.C.L.E."

 

            "We agree."  He sipped and winced inside.  All patrol room coffee tasted the same to him, no matter the setting.  "We have reason to believe that the movement is being financed by THRUSH ‑ a constant headache to us."

 

            "And if it proves otherwise"

 

            "We have instructions to turn all information over to you and head for home.  However, I did want you to know we were here and why."

 

            "That's very Hawaiian of you, Napoleon.  I appreciate your openness.  Is there anything I can help you with?"

 

            "Yes, can you point me in the direction of the library?"

 

 

 

            Illya Kuryakin was jarred rudely awake.  A hard surface came up to smack the side of his face and he winced at the impact.

 

            He opened his eyes and frowned.  It appeared he was trussed up and lying on the floor of a truck.  Another jolt slammed him into the metal before the vehicle came to a stop.  He used the lack of motion to gain an upper hand over his still‑reeling senses.  For a brief moment, he feared his was going to lose his breakfast, but he overcame that barely.  A shaft of light preceded by a rustling sound penetrated his prison as a canvas flap was thrown back. Illya kept still, playing possum, buying a little extra time.

 

            The flap fell back into place and Illya applied himself to the problem of his bonds.  A few deft moves proved this not to be a hindrance to him.  Whoever socked him wasn't very good at knot tying.  Either that or he was getting more dexterous.  Once free, he eased himself to the flap and peered cautiously outside.

 

            Groups of Hawaiians, many the same people he'd seen in the bar, milled about, obviously waiting for something or someone.

 

            A younger man pointed towards the truck and Illya practically dove for the floor and his bonds.  When he was checked, the Russian was unmoved from his earlier position.

 

            "Maybe you hit him too hard.  Should we check?"

 

             "What for?  It doesn't matter one way or the other."

 

             Illya took a moment to digest this.  It certainly made a difference to him, but he was personally involved.

 

            He reckoned it was time for the Calvary and he dropped his hand to his short's pocket.  He held his breath briefly, but the pen communicator was clipped securely there.

 

            Carefully, he twisted it open and spoke into it softly. "Open Channel F."

 

 

           

     Napoleon Solo pored over the various papers before him, the musty smell making him slightly nauseous. When his communicator beeped, he jumped, silencing it before an enraged librarian could throw him unceremoniously out on his...dignity.

 

             "Solo here."

           

            "Ah, Napoleon, how are things with you?"

 

            "Just peachy.  I'm in a stuffy library looking through smelly old newspapers.  You?"

 

            "Until very recently, I was tied up in the back of a truck, pondering my fate and listening to a discussion as to the necessity of my being kept alive.  Want to trade?"

 

            "Can't take you anywhere, can I?"

 

            "Sorry, but I have managed to infiltrate the group…sort of"

 

             "It was supposed to be as a member, Illya, not a victim.  Any chance of escaping?"

 

            "There's quite a crowd outside last time I checked.  I don’t know if they are armed, but there’s too many for me to successfully take on myself." He crawled back to the flap and pushed it aside.  "They're still with us, but another vehicle seems to be drawing all the attention at the moment."

 

            From the car stepped a big Hawaiian, easily seven feet tall, his broad shoulders proudly carrying the red and yellow cape of royalty.  This wasn't half as interesting to the Russian however as the rifle carried in the man's right hand ‑ complete with the infrared scope exclusive to THRUSH.

 

            "Napoleon," Illya whispered urgently, ducking back inside.  "Sadly, I am confirmed THRUSH involvement."

 

            "Not the words I was waiting to hear.  Keep your communicator open and I'll use it as a homing signal.  Sit tight and I'll see what I can do about rescuing you."

 

            "Hurry, Napoleon, hurry."

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE  "IS THAT WHAT I GET FOR RESCUING YOU?"

 

 

            The 'beep‑beep' was growing steadily stronger until Solo shut off the tracker for fear of it being heard.  He pulled the vehicle off the main highway and began to negotiate the narrow sugar cane road.  He chanced a quick check with the tracer to make sure he was headed the right way, and then returned to the tricky task of handling the car on the rutty hard‑packed dirt.

 

            He finally came to the conclusion that the road had no end, so he parked up on an embankment and climbed out of the car.  Immediately, he began to sweat again.  Even the snow and ice of New York wasn't as bad as he had thought.  Maybe there was something to be said for winter.

 

            He scrambled onto the hood and started to look around over the top of the sugar cane.  Ahead, perhaps a hundred yards, he saw several vehicles parked, one of them an old Army truck.  If he had driven any closer, it was apparent that he too would have been captured.

 

            Thanking his in‑bred Solo luck, Napoleon neared the site on foot, gradually becoming aware of the fact that the place was nearly deserted, except for one lone Hawaiian lounging near the back of the truck.

 

            Puzzled but grateful, he stole up and took the man out with a single well‑placed punch.

 

            "Illya?"  He moved to peek inside.

 

            "Napoleon, is that you?"  A black head stuck out from the back, nearly clipping Solo in the mouth.  "Oh, sorry."

 

            "Is that what I get for rescuing you?"  Solo then gaped at his usually blond, fair‑skinned partner.  "Such as you are.  I think I like you better as a blond."

 

            "Well, I thought about warning you, but I thought you might like the full effect."  Illya climbed down and hooked a finger over his shoulder.  "They've gone to practice with their new toys.  It looks like THRUSH is preparing for a major offensive here."

 

            "Wonderful.  Do you have any ideas?"

 

            "Only that we should get out of here as soon as possible.  They are an excitable lot and I still have a headache from my last encounter with their enthusiasm."

 

            "I got a car just down the road."

 

            "Great.  I hate over‑staying a welcome."

 

            They had barely reached the vehicle when it became apparent from a commotion that Illya was missed.

 

             "Looks like they've discovered you left."

 

            "That's the way I am, always welcomed, no one ever wanting me to leave."  At Solo's face, he smiled and climbed into the car. "You have anything to eat in here?  I'm starving."

 

            "Would you mind if we make our daring and colorful escape first?"  Solo backed up and took off as fast as possible.

 

            "Of course.  However, I would like to point out that if we meet one of those sugar cane trucks, they'll have to scrape us up with a fork and a spoon," Illya said, leaning back and buckling his seat belt.  “Do you have a gun?”

 

     "My little optimist, try the glove compartment."  Solo tromped down on the throttle and the car spun dirt in effort.  "Enter one primitive but effective smoke screen."

 

            He was confident they could escape, but then he usually was...at least up to the point where the bullet cracked their rear window.  At that point, he was forced to down‑graded it to pretty sure.

 

            He hit the main road with a fervent prayer that they didn't meet any traffic.  Doing sixty, he couldn't make the turn, but that was the least of his worries.  The car ground briefly against the pavement before launched itself towards the other side of the road.  Napoleon discovered brakes only work when all four tires are on the ground ‑ pity that.

 

            They shot the ditch, several clumps of sugar cane and miraculously ended up on another dirt road.

 

            "Not one word, Kuryakin," he threatened as he fought the wheel.

 

            "I wouldn't dream of it.  At the moment, holding on is taking my full concentration.  At least, our pursuer hasn't followed us yet."  The sound of squealing of tires and tearing of metal interrupted him.  "Sounds like someone met with oncoming traffic."  He clicked his tongue in mock sympathy.

 

             "See I told you we'd escape!"  Solo was triumphant, a feeling that was cut short by a lop‑sided jerk, then a thump and a gut‑wrenching stop.

 

            "So much for that axle."  Illya put his weight against the door to force it open.  "We'd better make a run for it."

 

             "Where?"

 

            "Anywhere but here.  It won't take those idiots long to figure out which way we went.  Besides, this road must lead somewhere."

 

            He took off with Solo close behind, their legs fueled by the sound of pursuing cars.

 

            Suddenly, the brush cleared and the ruins of an ancient village sprung up from the jungle floor and sugar cane to meet them.  High, still intact walls surrounded it and huge tikis, faces frozen for time, guarded the entrance.

 

            "Inside," Solo directed and they made a dash into the walled area.  "We may be able to hide somewhere."

 

            "Too late."  Illya pointed to an advancing cloud of dust.  "I don't think that's the Calvary."  Still, he followed his partner in.  There would, at least, be the chance for some cover and they might be able to make the far wall with a little of Solo's luck.  He checked his clip and waited.

 

            The tall Hawaiian ran up to the entrance of the village and pointed at them.

 

            "Who's that?" Solo panted, behind a thatched building.

 

            "That's King Kamehameha the whatever and, I suspect, the THRUSH plant.  Who else would wear a cape made of bird feathers?"

 

            "What's wrong?" the Hawaiian leader was shouting. "Follow them!  They've broken kapu and they must be punished!"

 

            "Napoleon."  Illya passed the gun to his partner and rose from his squat into a runner's starting position.  "You cover me and I'll make a diversion. Maybe we can get you clear."

 

            "Why me?"

 

             "You've got the gun.  All I've got is my boyish charm and brains.  Personally, I'd rather have weapon."

 

            "Why aren't you taking them?" the king demanded, facing the crowd now.

 

            "We can't," came a murmured response, one that was tinged with suspicion.  In fact, several members of the crowd were already beginning to disperse.

 

            "I order you to do so as King Kamehameha the tenth.  No off‑ islanders are to be allowed to live, especially kapu breakers."

 

            "But they've entered Puuhonua o Honaunau," one man protested over his shoulder as he was leaving.

 

             "So?"

 

            "Obviously, we are having a fit of pique," Solo said, watching the scene carefully, waiting for a chance to make a break.

 

            "You can't get good peasants these days," Illya murmured back.  “Poor Stalin found that out.

 

            "It's the City of Refuge, Your Majesty," explained the closer follower.  "All kapu breakers and criminals are safe within its gates and absolved of all crimes.  Surely you would know that.."

 

             "I don't care.  I order you to take them!  As King Kameha..."

 

            A shot rang out and the man crumpled to the ground.

 

            "Not even a king can violate Puuhonua o Honaunau.  A true Hawaiian would know that."  Illya recognized the speaker as Kana, the man from his encounter in Kona.

 

            "Wait, Kana!"  Illya stepped clear of the hut, despite Solo's frantic gestures not to.

 

            The Hawaiian turned and smiled at him.  "Yeah?"

 

            "What will you do now?"

 

            "It was a mistake to permit outside help.  We will continue the fight from within.  Too bad you're a blue‑eyed Hawaiian, Illya.  We could have used someone like you."

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

 

            "And that's the whole story," Illya paused to suck some poi from his fingers and make a face.  "This tastes like fermented library paste, not that I frequently dine upon that either."

 

            "That's because you're supposed to eat one of these with it."  Charlie Pukul put down his ukulele and handed Illya something that looked like a green onion.  "Maui violet onions – they’re good for clearing the sinuses and killing the taste of the poi.  Skinny fellow like you needs poi – it’ll put some meat on your bones, like Lei."

 

            "It's a real shame we had to miss all the fun."  Lei Kelekio stretched out on the sand and stared out at the sunset, paying no attention to the dozen or so tourists wistfully eyeing their picnic fare as they wandered past.  "That's the story of my life.  All dressed up and no place to go."

 

            "I'd have traded places with you in an instant."  Illya picked up a piece of the onion and began to chew on it. "Tomorrow we'll be back to scraping ice from our windshields and freezing our..."  He coughed as his senses were assaulted by the pungent root.

 

            “That’s the sinus part I was talking about,” Charlie pounded him on the back and held out a glass of rum punch. Illya took it and drank deeply.

 

            "So, what about the THRUSH involvement?" Lei interrupted, uninterested in hearing the cons of life on the mainland

 

            "I don't think we'll have to worry about future cooperation.  THRUSH has worn out its welcome.  Whatever happens now will have to come from your own government." Illya discarded the poi and returned to the kalua pig.  A luau was definitely the right way to end an assignment here.

 

            "Where is Napoleon anyhow?  I haven't seen him since we got here.  Isn't he enjoying himself"   Charlie strummed the instrument softly.

 

            "Immensely, I suspect, if I know my partner. Last I heard, he was saying something about haying season coming to Kona.  It’s an old joke that has to do with…never mind."  Illya looked from one confused face to the other and grinned, lifting his glass to theirs. " _Nostrovia_."

 

 

                                      


End file.
